


Midnight

by rude_not_ginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:26:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1988037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is midnight in four different places.  In four different ways, Sherlock Holmes is entranced by Irene Adler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight

It is midnight in Baker Street.

This is where things change.

This is where, months earlier, he found himself sitting and thinking about her---this strange, ethereal being who was thrust into his life. She was unreadable, but she was always unreadable. He found himself sitting and thinking about what she would be doing, following her twitter, or staring at the phone she left him. This is where she injected herself into him like a potent carcinogen or a sharp hypodermic needle. And, he realizes, she did it from a distance. She never had to touch him.

This is where he suffered. Her presence in the world was never felt, but it was always _known_. Suddenly it is gone, and he feels agony at her death. He does not _grieve_ , nothing so mundane. But he does suffer. He plays music to help himself think. A rising and falling melody like a heartbeat. It is something to take away from the pulsating pain.

He does not understand grief. He does not believe he needs to. Grief is for other people, just as attraction and sentiment and love are for other people. He has no desire for any of these emotions, and so he simply calls it pain. One does not eat in pain. One does not leave the house in pain.

So much pain, until now. Now, this moment, where he knows she is alive.

“So, she’s alive,” he hears. “How are we feeling about that?”

It is John. John is a constant, John is a rock. John is the person who sees the pain and knows it for what it is. At least, he hopes John knows it for what it is. John asks about “feeling”, and so perhaps he does not understand it.

The clock strikes twelve. It is a new year, and she is alive. Some wound has been healed, something is fixed with just the knowledge that somewhere she is out there. Somewhere she is alive. She does not have to touch him for him to know that she is there, walking the streets in the darkness. Ruling him without touch.

“Happy New Year, John,” he says.

.

It is midnight in Heathrow.

This is where things change.

She does not touch him, now. She sits and betrays him. Stands apart from him, owning the room. Her betrayal is a knife, and the pain it causes is aggravatingly deep. He wants to say that he hates her, but he hates his own folly far more than he can ever hate her. She is too clever to hate, too logical. Her coldness is enticing, fascinating.

He cannot let her win.

At this point, he will not win, he knows this. He will not win, because she already simmers under his skin, she has already pushed him deep into the muck of sentiment. But _she_ cannot win. He will do anything to make certain of this. Even if it cuts her out of the world. Even if it cuts him with pain or grief or whatever the hell it will make him feel. She cannot win.

This is how Sherlock Holmes loves, he thinks. If she is going to make him love, he’s going to love her with all of the hate he can muster. He’s going to destroy her plans with every fibre of his being.

He stands. Walks over to her. Touches her. Her pulse, elevated. Her eyes, lingering on his mouth. He will not kiss her. He will destroy her. He will not give into wants. Into petty feelings like attraction and lust. No, he will remind her (and himself) that the chemistry of love is very _simple_ , and they do not like simple things.

Her anguish is palatable. A broken woman. Everything she worked for, gone in an instant. Good. She deserves this, he thinks. She deserves this for making him _want_.

“Sorry about dinner.”

.

It is midnight in Karachi.

This is where things change.

The Woman is going to die.

He tells himself that the plane ride is to watch her die. To see what he’s done, to finish it. It is 5 hours into the flight that he realizes this is not true. Of course it is not true. No, she likes having people exactly when she needs them. And right now, she needs him.

Is this all a manipulation? Is this all part of her plan? Is there some sort of layer to her that he still hasn’t seen? Is she again pulling him in? Pulling him in without touching him?

Does it matter?

That last question comes unbidden as he treks out into the desert. The last question settles in his stomach as he chloroforms the executioner to take his place. The last question bubbles like heroin in a spoon and smells like a strong high. She should mean nothing to him. She is not even a case anymore. He should let her die. He made it so she will die, and so he should let her die. This is how the story should end.

Saving her means he’s letting her win.

Her hair is dirty and stringy, and her face is dirty with hollowed-out cheeks. She turns to face him, and he is struck by how beautiful she is. Perhaps this is what love is. He’s letting her win. He’s going to give her absolutely everything he did not want to give up: The _win_.

She cannot see his smile under the disguise. It is probably better that she can’t. He wouldn’t be able to explain it if she asked.

He does not touch her. He simply speaks. “When I say ‘run’, _run._ ”

.

It is midnight in Paris.

It is midnight, and Irene Adler is wearing red.

He can read designer labels and expensive purchases on the dress, but he can read nothing on Irene Adler. She is a mystery. _The_ mystery. She stands on the platform of the Eiffel Tower, looking out over the city.

The structure is closed. Last admittance was an hour ago. Irene Adler---the Woman, _the_ Woman---does not care. She is there. Waiting.

“I didn’t think you would come,” she says, not turning to look at him.

Sherlock Holmes is wearing a suit. A tie. Cufflinks. There is something to this, to this _dress up_ he is playing. Something he is doing for her. He does not understand it, so he decides not to try.

“Yes,” he replies. “Yes, you did.”

She turns to face him. She does not appear to have aged since Karachi. She does not appear to have aged since Heathrow, or Baker Street. But, did all that take place last week? Was it twenty years ago?

Does it matter?

There is a small radio playing nearby. It plays a familiar melody, rising and falling like a heartbeat.

She extends a hand to him.

“Dance with me,” she says.

Sherlock Holmes loves dancing, but has never had a partner. No one who can keep up with him, no one who can engage him. He imagines she knows this. Perhaps this is a consolation prize for him losing to her.

Does it matter?

He reaches out and takes her hand. Her touch is warm in the autumn air. Her fingers are lean, and slip in between his easily. She moves towards him, and her arms circle him. She is not a vice, she is not holding him, not physically. Yet, her embrace is not something he intends to break.

This is where things change.

**Author's Note:**

> For lyrangalia.
> 
> Written for the rarepairbingo on Tumblr.


End file.
